


Tattoo

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor visits his sure-to-be consort.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He waits until Aulë’s away before he visits, not for any true fear of the great smith but simply to save himself the time and energy of subterfuge. There have been times where he’s slipped inside the towering halls in forms befitting the shadows, and he’s crept along the walls from pillar to pillar, whispering words of disdain and descent into the ears of any Maia that might listen. There’s only one in particular he wants, and his efforts there haven’t been so much insidious as bold, but while he’s in another’s walls he may as well sow the right seeds. When Aulë is off visiting creatures so far beneath them, Melkor stalks through the front gates in his full glory. He can hear the clang of iron in the distance, echoing through the cavernous corridors, and knows the place is still full of life. But he ignores the other workers in favour of his favourite: he heads straight for Mairon’s forge.

The place is just as empty, save for the very center. Mairon makes no use of assistants: he does everything himself, as he’s the only one that can ever meet his exacting standards. Melkor imagines he could produce even more perfect creations should he set his mind to it. His want isn’t with crafts. Yet he enjoys seeing his future servant at work, busily toiling over some golden trinket above burning embers. His hammer stills when he senses Melkor coming, and he straightens over the grating, pulling to his full height. He stands there, more glorious than the shining floors and intricately carved walls, brighter than all the gems and silver that line the shelves and twinkle from tables. Fire-like red-gold hair tumbles down Melkor’s slender shoulders in waves, curling over black coverings and an apron, though he looks as deadly as though he were in blood-slick armour. His handsome face changes for his visitor: still twisted with passionate obsession, but stronger for Melkor than it was for whatever he was tinkering with. His lips lift with a smile. 

Melkor smiles back, dripping with honey. This is one of the few places he ever uses truly soft words, because Mairon is one he would draw to himself with lust instead of fear, and thus far that seduction’s proven most effective. Mairon drops his tool all together when Melkor is an arm’s length away, and Melkor doesn’t stop there.

He moves until one heavy boot has slotted right between Mairon’s sandals, and his arm thrusts around Mairon’s trim waist, pulling the lovely Maia tight against his chest. He halts just short of smashing their mouths together, though he lets his eyes fall pointedly to Mairon’s lips, and he sees the way Mairon eagerly wets them. Mairon’s body is hot to the touch, flaring hotter on impact—he seems to _burn_ for Melkor like he never could for Aulë. Melkor doesn’t spare a single look for the forge, instead hooked on Mairon’s gaze, even when he hisses, “What have you made for me this time, my little flame?”

A shiver runs through Mairon’s figure. It’s no question what he was working on—even were it originally for Aulë, Mairon’s current master, Melkor knows he would offer it up the second Melkor asked. But this time, Mairon doesn’t pay the forge any interest either. 

He murmurs so close to Melkor’s mouth, “Release me, and I will show you.”

Melkor arches an ashen brow. It’s rare that Mairon will ask to be let go—usually, he pleads for them to be _closer_. He tends to throw himself into Melkor’s arms like some mortal hussy, or a ravenous wolf with hunger needing sating. Curious, Melkor obliges.

He lets Mairon go, and Mairon steps back, only enough to extend his arm. He rolls up the sleeve of his tunic, pushing it right to his bicep, and twists to expose his forearm. Melkor’s eyes grow wide at the script engraved there: _Melkor’s name_ , written in the language of song, of Ilúvatar himself but corrupted to the tune the two of them have begun on—Melkor sang it first, and Mairon rapturously recorded it, and between them it grew into their own dialect distinct from all the Valar. It’s likely Aulë wouldn’t be able to read it clearly if he glimpsed it, though Melkor imagines Aulë never sees Mairon without his raiment. As easy as Mairon is to have and claim, Melkor is sure that easiness is for him alone. 

Eyes feverish in their intensity, Mairon breathes, “I had thought to make you more trinkets, my true master, but I could think of nothing worthy of your majesty. So I wrought your name upon myself, to show that I would give you not only all that I could make, but the hands that made them. If that is not enough, I will resume work on it and embed jewels, whatever ore you like, in any pattern you should desire. I would remake my whole self for your whims—a gift the one I serve now could never even think to ask for.”

Melkor stares at him. A hand shoots out, grasping Mairon’s wrist, squeezing so hard that Mairon gasps, and Melkor’s blunt nails dig angry red lines into his flesh. But he lets Melkor twist him, pull him closer—Melkor runs his palm over the dark lines and the enflamed skin beneath. He can _feel_ the ardour in it. Even the first-born, whom Manwë thinks so clever, have not yet thought to mark the flesh their creator gave them. But their hands are clumsy, and they would likely only sully their already inferior forms. What Mairon’s done is _art_. And it’s genius—the first of its kind. It only shows what a creative mind Mairon has—how useful he’ll be at Melkor’s side. 

Melkor thirsts at seeing it. A great want swells up in him, a lust that only Mairon has ever inspired. He sees that Mairon is just as starving for it—he’s all but trembling in Melkor’s grasp. Melkor had thought to take him away—to bring him for a stroll outside and whisper such crude things in his ear that Manwë would flinch to hear them. But now Melkor can’t leave without claiming his gift fully. 

He storms forward, slamming into Mairon’s mouth like a sword on steel, and at the same time he fists his hand in Mairon’s hair so Mairon can’t escape. He wouldn’t anyway. He greedily presses back into Melkor’s mouth, opening wide to take more of it. Melkor’s tongue answers the invitation. He washes over every bit of Mairon’s being and takes Mairon so fiercely that steam billows from the kiss. The arm that bears Melkor’s name loops around his back, Mairon’s talented fingers tangling in his black hair. 

Melkor breaks the kiss to shove Mairon to the floor. Mairon lets himself fall, hits it hard and lies there, ripe and ready for the taking. Brown fabric and orange strands splay out around him, framing all his splendor. He looks up at Melkor through half-lidded eyes and burning cheeks, arms slowly outstretching. 

Melkor descends into them and fucks Aulë’s pretty servant hard into the floor, branding every last scrap of Mairon’s body as _his._


End file.
